


Let Your Love Come Out

by HawthorneWhisperer



Series: Road Trip [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke embark on what they assume will be the world’s worst road trip from Virginia to Seattle for Octavia and Lincoln’s wedding.  Written for b-ellamyblakes Bellarke Fic Week Challenge for Day Two: Road Trip AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Love Come Out

_Monday, 4pm.  Charlottesville, VA._

Bellamy pulled up in front of the girls’ house and killed the engine on his beat up Jeep.  Clarke was waiting on the front walk, her luggage piled next to her, while Monty stood at her side, his arms crossed.

“Clarke, this is a terrible idea.”  He overheard Monty as he hopped out, because of course Clarke would wait for Bellamy to load her luggage himself.  Monty frowned as Clarke shrugged.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?  Because this could end really badly,” Monty pleaded.

“Ready, princess?” Bellamy asked, interrupting what was clearly an old argument.  Clarke nodded sharply and hugged Monty one last time.  Raven came tearing out of the house to hug Clarke good bye, and Monty grabbed Bellamy’s arm.

“Be nice to her, okay?”

“I’m always nice.”

Monty fixed him with a stern look at odds with his usual cheerful nature and Raven joined him, glaring daggers.  “Just remember she’s going through a lot before you ditch her ass on the side of the road in Kansas, okay?” Raven said sharply.

“We’re not going through Kansas,” Bellamy countered and someday, he would learn not to poke the bear that is Raven Reyes in a bad mood.  (Today was not that day).

She punched his arm and made her “I’m serious” face.  “Clarke’s going through some major shit right now, okay?  So _be.  nice_.”  She walked around the front of the Jeep to Clarke’s side and looked up.  “Clarke Matilda Griffin–”

“Not my middle name,” Clarke deadpanned in yet another one of this group’s goddamn inside jokes.

“Clarke Matilda Griffin, I will see you Friday, and I expect both of you to be in one piece and with only minor injuries, okay?”

“Bye guys,” Clarke said firmly and nodded to Bellamy like she was giving him an order.  It pissed him off but they were wasting time so he threw it into reverse and off they went, on the world’s worst road trip.

 

_Monday, 10pm.  Somewhere outside Columbus, OH._

A list of things currently pissing Bellamy Blake off:

-His sister (his baby sister and his only family in the world was getting married in less than a week, which only really reinforced how alone he was.

-Not only that but she’d moved, leaving him all by himself in Virginia while she started a new life in Seattle with Lincoln, about whom Bellamy still hadn’t officially made up his mind.  

-The fact that Lincoln was actually a pretty decent guy who loved Octavia and Bellamy couldn’t even hate him like he wanted to.

-With O gone, his only friends left in Virginia were Miller and her friends, and O’s friends were annoyingly close-knit, even if they did their best to welcome him and Miller in.  He still didn’t get their “Not My Middle Name” joke and he didn’t think he ever would.

-Clarke Griffin’s driving, which was annoyingly perfect.  She drove like she did everything–by the book and with eerie precision.  She was going to make a terrifyingly good surgeon.

-Clarke Griffin’s presence, which had been basically forced on him by O.  “She’s not flying and it’s silly for both of you to drive,” O wheedled over skype.  “You’ll save so much gas money and you won’t be doing all the driving.”  O left out that the only reason he was driving was because she still had a ton of crap left that hadn’t fit in the moving van and someone had to drive it out to her.

-Clarke Griffin’s choice of music, which was limited to “bands from the 1970s or earlier, plus U2.”  That had led to a ten minute fight, because she claimed the driver controlled the stereo but Bellamy firmly insisted that his jeep was a Bono-free zone.

-Fucking Bono.  How can anyone listen to that shit?

 

_Tuesday, 7am.  Southern Wisconsin?_

Bellamy blinked rapidly as he woke up and tried to ascertain their surroundings and then amended his earlier assessment of Clarke’s driving to include “very fast.”  “Where are we?” he rasped.

“We went through Milwaukee about an hour ago.  So middle of nowhere?”  She slurped coffee from a gas station cup, but Bellamy didn’t remember any stops after they crossed the border into Indiana.

“When did you get that?” he asked, a little put out that she hadn’t woken him to switch drivers.  This woman was practically a machine and it made him a little uncomfortable.

“Um, after Chicago but before Milwaukee.  I forget where, exactly.  You were out.”

Bellamy rubbed at the crick in his neck and watched the road signs for a bit.  “There–up ahead.  There’s a Perkin’s on that exit, so let’s stop and get some breakfast.”  Bellamy was starving–the last thing he’d had to eat was a cold Subway sandwich somewhere in Ohio and that was ages ago.

“No need–I bought some doughnuts at the last gas station, and there’s a cup of coffee for you too.  It’s probably cold by now, but it’ll do the trick.”

“Not gonna cut it, princess,” he grumbled, wondering when the hell she became such a miser.  Clarke had even balked at stopping at Subway for dinner, insisting that the chips she’d packed were plenty.  “My car, my rules.  We’re stopping for breakfast.”  Clarke clenched her jaw but flicked on the blinker, and fifteen minutes later they were seated and gulping down (hot) coffee like their lives depended on it.  Clarke took forever with the menu before she settled on some eggs and toast.

Something was off–she seemed agitated, and Bellamy remembered from the brunches O had dragged him to that Clarke was a waffles or pancakes girl, not…something that cost $4.99.  Raven’s hissed warning– _Clarke’s going through some major shit right now_ – came back to him.

“Everything alright with you?”

Clarke nodded and looked determinedly out the window and Bellamy let it drop.  It wasn’t his business, anyway.

_Tuesday, 5pm.  Central South Dakota._

They had been driving for 24 hours, and Bellamy personally considered the fact that they’d only had four big fights–the Bono fight, whether the Patriots were a lying bunch of scumbag cheaters (his position) or America’s Team (hers); whether or not Metallica was “horrible music meant for idiotic teenage boys” (Bellamy didn’t speak to her for a full hour after that one), and a long, meandering political argument that Bellamy thought he’d won, but given the way she had cheerfully sung along to the Beatles for the next half hour made him wonder if he’d actually lost and just didn’t know it– a personal victory.   _Suck it, Reyes_ , he thought.  Granted, the Beatles had launched them into another minor squabble about whether or not “Imagine” was “sappy tripe intended to appeal to the lowest common denominator” or “beautifully optimistic” because of  _course_  Clarke would also think Lennon was a genius not to be questioned, but that one petered out relatively quickly and Bellamy categorized it with the rest of their minor quarrels.  Their friendship–if you could call it that–had always been like this: a constant, low level hostility broken up by giant arguments that eventually bled back into absent-minded bickering.

He glanced at Clarke out of the corner of his eye–she’d slept through most of Minnesota, her brow relaxed for once in her life.  She looked so gentle when she was asleep, so different from the sharp, tough woman he mostly knew as his sister’s college roommate. But now she was awake, her legs propped on the dashboard and her sketchbook in her lap.  “I don’t know about you, princess, but I’m beat.  I say we take the next exit that has a hotel and a hot meal,” he suggested.

Clarke’s shoulders tensed and she sat up straight, her feet returning to the floor.  “You mean stop?  I thought we were driving straight through.”

“Straight through?  Are you crazy?  Last night was one thing, but the whole way?”

“It’s cheaper,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, but it’s also a great way to get ourselves killed because one of us fell asleep at the wheel.”

“I’ll be fine.  I’ve stayed up all night studying plenty of times.”

“Studying isn’t driving.”

Clarke clenched her hands into fists.  “Hotels are expensive.”

 _So that’s it_ , Bellamy thought to himself.  “Don’t worry about me, princess.  I might be poor but I can handle a night at a Holiday Inn.”  It was true–his stipend was crap, but he made okay money bartending and tutoring athletes, plus he was teaching an SAT prep course this summer.  She at least knew about that last one (it was the reason they left Monday afternoon instead of Monday morning) but maybe she assumed that if he had to work extra jobs he couldn’t afford a hotel.  Her pity grated on him.

Clarke blew out an angry breath through her nostrils, her lips clamped together so tightly they were turning white.  “I can’t afford it, okay?” she said lowly.

“Right,  _Princess_  can’t afford a night in a shitty-ass motel,” he sneered and took the exit anyway.  The sign said there was a Holiday Inn and an Applebees, which were good enough for him.  Her mother was a goddamn surgeon and she’d grown up in a goddamn mansion and on more than one occasion she’d bought O’s books when O’s loans came in late.  If there was one thing Bellamy knew about Clarke, it was that she was rolling in money.  “Just call your mom and tell her it’s an emergency.”

“I’m not speaking with her right now.”

“Not interested in your family drama,” he spat back.  He couldn’t believe she was claiming poverty–Clarke Griffin, poor.  Her clothes usually cost more than his car.

“I said I can’t afford it!” she yelled at him.  “She cut me off, okay?   _She cut me off._    So I don’t have any fucking money and I definitely don’t have enough for a hotel.”

Bellamy pulled into the hotel parking lot and cut the engine.  “When?” he asked, trying to keep the hostility out of his voice because dammit, he needed to sleep in a bed.   _And why didn’t O tell me?_

“Few months ago.  I told her I’d finish out the semester, but then I was quitting med school.  She cut me off and I have a little savings, but not much.”

“Weren’t you planning on driving yourself?  What were you going to do, just take a bunch of speed and stay up the whole drive?”

Clarke’s snort sounded almost like a laugh.  “I have a sleeping bag.  I would’ve stayed in my car.  Or camped.”

Bellamy leaned back in the driver’s seat and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Look, I get it.”  And he did–pride where money was concerned was something he understood very well.  (He’d maybe hated Clarke since the first time she swooped in and bought Octavia’s books like a goddamn white knight).  “But we can’t just keep driving.  I’m staying here, and you’re not sleeping in the car.”

“I can’t afford to split it with you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said as gently as he could, because  _this_  was not a Clarke Griffin he was prepared to deal with.  “But I’m not giving you a choice here, okay?  I’ll make sure there’s two beds and I promise I don’t snore.”

The corners of her lips twitched and Bellamy knew that this fight, at least, he’d won.

 

_Tuesday, 8pm.  Middle Of Fucking Nowhere._

Bellamy frowned at looked at the half of a burger he had sitting in front of him.  He had assumed that he’d won the last fight of the day with Clarke when they checked into the hotel, but a whole new one had broken out when he suggested they walk across the parking lot to Applebees.  She flat out refused, and they had both spat things about  _charity_  and  _pity_  and  _being stubborn brat_  at each other (okay, maybe he’d said the last thing to her.  And maybe it wasn’t entirely fair, but he was exhausted and hungry and sick of fighting).  In the end, Clarke stayed and claimed she would make a meal from the vending machine.

He was depressed just thinking about it–doritos and kit kats weren’t a dinner (and he knew that’s what she would buy. Somehow he’d learned a lot about her in the past three years, ever since he moved to Charlottesville to start grad school and Octavia had forcibly integrated him into their friend group.  It was also strange that he knew exactly what she would buy but when he thought about it, he couldn’t imagine what Jasper or Monty or even Raven would want from a vending machine.  And he’d fucked Raven).  He had ordered an almost ridiculous amount of food for himself–to spite her, he said–but now that he was full with half a burger and almost an entire plate of fries still in front of him, he knew why he’d done it.  He asked the waitress for a box and paid his check, still annoyed with himself.  

Clarke was sitting cross legged on her bed, the deterius of her vending machine meal (doritos and kit kats, like he suspected)  balled up in the garbage.  Bellamy dropped the box unceremoniously on the bed.  “Eyes were bigger than my stomach.  You can eat it if you want, but it isn’t going to last out in the car so if it’s still here tomorrow morning I’m throwing it out.”

Clarke looked at him evenly and for a second he thought he was in for another fight, but then she lowered her gaze and opened the take-out box without another word.  Bellamy escaped to the shower and let the hot water beat down on his shoulders while he pondered why seeing her defeated made him feel like he’d lost too.

 

_Wednesday, 10am.  Central South Dakota (Still the Middle of Fucking Nowhere)._

“FUCK,” Clarke bellowed and the road noise increased exponentially as she slowed the car to a stop on the shoulder.  She slapped the wheel in frustration and screamed through clenched teeth.  “It’s a fucking flat.”

Bellamy groaned and climbed out into the furnace-like heat of the high plains.  The front passenger wheel was shredded and Clarke circled around next to him, looking furious.  “Dammit,” she cursed again and kicked at the weeds on the side of the highway.  A semi thundered past as Bellamy pulled out the jack and rolled the spare up, wondering how the fuck he was going to get out of this one.

He crouched down next to the tire…and stared.  Blankly.  For way too long.  Finally Clarke cleared her throat.  “Are you meditating or changing the tire?”

Yeah, he definitely wasn’t going to get out of this in one piece.  “I, uh, don’t know how.”

Clarke barked with laughter.  “What?  No.  No way.  Not possible.”

“I grew up with a single mom and a little sister, okay?  Not a lot of guys around who could teach me how to change a tire,” he growled.

“Aren’t you the very person who chewed out O for not knowing how to change a tire because, and I quote ‘you shouldn’t wait around for a guy to rescue you?’”  Bellamy gritted his teeth–he hadn’t counted on her remembering that.  

“Yeah, well maybe I can’t change a tire, but I can put french braids on a squirming four year old, so.”

“So?”  Clarke raised one eyebrow.

“So?  It means I have useful skills.”

“Right.   _Useful_.”  Clarke grinned mischievously and shouldered him out of the way.  “Good thing you’ve got me here to rescue you.”  Bellamy smiled grudgingly and she got to work.

 

_Wednesday, 1pm.  Rapid City, South Dakota._

Bellamy was driving again, now on a set of brand new tires he couldn’t really afford, but it wasn’t like he had much choice.  Clarke had her feet propped up on the dashboard (barefoot, and he honestly never would have thought someone like Clarke Griffin would take the time to paint her toenails pink) as she munched on some beef jerky they’d bought while the tires got fixed.  “Oh, hey, Raven gave me a package before we left,” she said, smacking her lips and rummaging in her purse.  “She told me to hold onto it until we hit about halfway.”  Clarke tore open the package like a kid on Christmas morning (Funny, he had her pegged for one of those neurotics that slid paper open and folded it back perfectly) and laughed with glee.  “Score!  Mix tapes!  Well, CDs.  We’ve got…” the CDs clacked together as she sorted through them.  “Raven, O, Monty, Miller, and Jasper.”

“O made one?  She’s been in Seattle since before we decided to drive together.”

“It’s got Raven’s handwriting on it–she probably sent Raven a list.  What’s your poison?”

“Jasper’s is probably going to be nothing but Phish.”

Clarke giggled.  “Come on, be fair–there’s probably some Widespread Panic too.”  Bellamy raised his eyebrows at her and she tossed it back over her shoulder into O’s mountain of stuff with a disgusted look.  “Okay, Raven, O, Monty or Miller?”

“Raven,” he decided.  Of course, he regretted it the second Clarke slid the CD in, because Raven’s first song choice was “Let’s Get It On.”  It only got worse from there–Ludacris’ “What’s Your Fantasy” segued into “I Touch Myself,” and by the time “Fuck Her Gently” came on (after “Feel Like Making Love and “I’ll Make Love To You), he was ready to murder Raven.

Clarke had laughed heartily at the first few songs, but after four or five she’d gotten quieter.  “What is it with you and her?” she asked.  Clarke picked at her nails and didn’t look up.

“What do you mean?”  He knew damn well what she meant, but he was also surprised she was bringing it up after this long.

“You guys were…a thing.  For awhile.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed.  He didn’t really consider a one-night stand a “thing” and honestly, neither did Raven.  “It was one night.”   _One night, because you started dating Finn and she wasn’t over him yet._ At the time, he was surprised–it wasn’t  like Clarke to go out with her friend’s ex.  He got bits and pieces of the story from Jasper, who was their group gossip, and as best as he could tell, Raven and Finn dated in high school and she (rather unlike Raven) had always secretly thought they’d end up together.  Clarke met Finn at some volunteer gig, but since Raven only ever called Finn “Spacewalker,” Clarke didn’t know he was the same person that had broken Raven’s heart until she was a few weeks into it (and even worse, Finn did know how Raven felt, but apparently didn’t feel the same way).  Clarke broke up with Finn not too long after, but not before Raven had shown up at Bellamy’s apartment, pissed.  

Bellamy had always wondered why she’d chosen him–someone in their group of friends, someone she would have to deal with later.  It probably would have been easier in the long run with someone else, but maybe she didn’t feel like trying (and Bellamy had a certain weakness where women was concerned).   _Why me?_ he’d drunkenly asked Raven a few months later.  

She’d sent him a withering look.   _Do you really not know?_  she replied, and then rolled her eyes.  _I wanted to hurt them both, okay?_ He never really understood what she meant, and now he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Clarke gnawed on her thumbnail and shrugged.  “She just talked about you a lot.  After.  For awhile.  I thought this–” she flapped a hand towards the CD player–”was a signal or something.”

“I doubt it.  She probably just thinks she’s being funny.”  He jabbed at the eject button.  “Let’s go for Monty’s instead.”

Monty’s CD turned out to be a relatively benign mix of mostly Motown classics with some electronica mixed in that they unanimously agreed to skip.  Twenty minutes into Monty’s mix Clarke seemed to have relaxed considerably.  Bellamy did his best to ignore her earlier mood swing, and definitely didn’t pay attention to the small bubble of pride in his chest when he contemplated the fact that Clarke had seemed almost…jealous.

They settled back into their earlier rhythm, and when they stopped for gas Clarke caught the keys easily when Bellamy tossed them her way.  He handed her jerky when she asked, fought down the absolutely ludicrous impulse to feed it to her, and when Monty’s CD ran out (with three Jackson Five songs in a row) he swapped it for Miller’s.

Miller’s CD was, unsurprisingly, mostly hipster garbage.  Men with reedy voices and women singing softly, accompanied by pianos, acoustic guitars, and strings.  However, one thing became glaringly clear roughly three songs in.

Clarke noticed it too.  “So Miller’s in love with Monty, isn’t he?”

“Definitely,” Bellamy confirmed the second she finished talking.  He’d been wondering about that for awhile, given that Miller tended to spend hours listening to this exact crap (which was growing on him, although maybe that was the way Clarke was humming along) whenever he hung out with Octavia’s friends.  He’d also seen the way Miller looked at Monty–softly, like he was something precious–but while Miller was his best friend they didn’t really spend much time talking about their feelings.  “Any chance Monty’s interested?”

Clarke scrunched up her face in thought.  “I think so?  He’s a little hard to read when it comes to that, but…I think he might?  He pays more attention to Miller than anyone else when you guys are around, at least.”

“That’s good,” Bellamy responded and they settled into an easy conversation.  So easy, in fact, he wondered why he’d ever thought her impossible.

 

_Wednesday, 9pm.  Sheridan, Wyoming._

The dull roar of the shower filled the tiny hotel room and Bellamy flicked up the volume on the TV a few more notches.  Not only had Clarke agreed to a hotel room without a fight, but she had also gone out for dinner with him (Chilis, this time) and paid for his meal.  He protested–heavily–but she insisted and he eventually folded, glad that she was at least eating real food and not fighting him over it.  Now she was showering while he idly flipped through channels, glad to be out of the car for at least a few hours.

The shower cut off and Clarke stepped out into the room with one towel secured tightly across her chest and another piled on top of her head.  She winced as steam poured out of the bathroom behind her.  “Is it just me or is it  _freezing_  out here?”

Bellamy nodded absently as he watched a drop of water fall from her earlobe to her shoulder, gliding down her clavicle and disappearing under the towel in the valley between her breasts.  He wondered what it would be like to trace that same path with his tongue and then abruptly realized what he’d just imagined.  “Uh yeah, seems like the air conditioning is stuck.  I’ll, uh, go talk to the office,” he stammered and beat it out of the room, completely horrified with himself.

 

_Wednesday, 11:30pm.  Sheridan, Wyoming._

A fifteen minute argument with the meth head behind the front desk had accomplished absolutely nothing and as a result, their room was currently reaching arctic temperatures.  Clarke seemed more bothered by the cold than Bellamy and the warmest clothes she’d brought were just jeans and a flannel shirt, so he’d loaned her his sweatshirt.  He had also–in a fit of incredible stupidity masquerading as flirtation–reminded her that he could french braid hair if she wanted to keep her wet hair off her neck for the evening.  Clarke raised one eyebrow before she agreed, but he felt her muscles relaxing while he wove the thick, wet strands of her hair together.  She sat on the floor in front of him, his sweatshirt pulled down over her knees, and he could have sworn she made a soft sound, almost like a moan, when he gently lifted a section of hair by the roots.

He took a cold shower after that, fighting a losing battle with his sudden surge of hormones.  He closed his eyes and gripped the base of his insistently-hard cock, stroking himself as quickly as possible and sternly telling his brain to imagine anyone but the woman sitting just outside the door, her nose hidden under the collar of his sweatshirt like she was breathing him in when really, she was probably just shielding her face against the sub-zero blasts of air.  He failed miserably, images of Clarke battering his brain as he came with an almost silent groan.

Now they were laying silently in the pitch-dark room, the only noise the buzzing of the demonic air conditioner.  Clarke had kept Bellamy’s sweatshirt to sleep in, but Bellamy had never been able to sleep in any more clothes than his boxers.  He usually kept himself warm pretty easily, but even he had to admit the room was far colder than what was comfortable.  Clarke was tossing and turning in the other bed and finally let out a frustrated noise and sat up.

“Scooch over,” she ordered and pulled down the blankets on the side of his bed.  “We’re sharing tonight, because I’m not getting hypothermia in June.”  She slipped under the covers and wriggled closer to him.  Bellamy squawked in protest when her icy hands brushed his bare chest, but she silenced him with a scoff.  “Oh please, you’re like a human furnace,” she dismissed and curled up in the space right next to him.  

After a second of hesitation–his memories from his shower still a little too recent–Bellamy reached out and pulled her close.  Her nose bumped his neck and he flinched at how cold it was.  They arranged themselves so Bellamy was on his back and Clarke’s head rested just above his heart, which was pumping uncomfortably fast.  She insinuated her leg between his, her stubble from a few days without shaving rasping against his calves, and he wrapped an arm around her back to secure her in place.  After a few minutes his heart had slowed down and her hands no longer felt like blocks of ice.  Clarke pushed herself up and tugged his sweatshirt off.  She tossed it to the opposite bed and returned to the cocoon of warmth they shared.  But where before he had felt a shapeless, heavy sweatshirt pressed half to his side and half to his chest, now he could feel the curve of her breasts under her long sleeved shirt.  All that separated them was a one layer of cotton and his heart picked back up, beating out a rapid tattoo against his rib cage.

It was warm, but Clarke seemed tense against him and neither of them were anywhere near sleeping.  Bellamy remembered the way her muscles had seemed to liquify when he braided her hair earlier, so he pulled the tie off the end and very slowly started unraveling the braid he’d made just hours earlier.

Clarke relaxed against him almost instantly and he fought the urge to kiss the crown of her head.  “What am I going to do?” she breathed, and he somehow knew she was talking about her mother and med school, even though they had barely touched on that topic at all.  

“You’ll figure it out.  You always do,” he said softly, working the damp strands of her braid loose and scratching lightly at her scalp.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her breath fanning across his chest.  

“No problem, princess,” he whispered back.

 

_Thursday, 10am.  Just outside of Billings, Montana._

By all rights, that morning should have been awkward.  They had been nearly mortal enemies less than 48 hours earlier, so waking up in the same bed–even if they were just sharing warmth on account of a broken air conditioner–should have created some uncomfortable moments.  Instead, Clarke had smiled sleepily and him and stretched, dislodging his arm from where it was draped her over waist, and that was that.  Things were back to normal, or at least the new normal they had established the day before.

They really were a good team, he had to admit.  Clarke smuggled four extra donuts out of the breakfast area while Bellamy distracted the morning clerk by yelling about the air conditioner (even though waking up next to Clarke had been the highlight of his trip, not that he’d ever admit that out loud) and Bellamy took the first shift of the drive while she propped her feet on the dash again and picked at a frosted donut.

“Want some?” she mumbled, her mouth full.  Bellamy nodded, and then tried not to crash the car when instead of handing him a piece she held it to his lips.  His tongue brushed her fingers–maybe a little bit on purpose–as he ate, and she laughed out loud and turned to look out the window while the tips of her ears turned bright red.

 

_Thursday, 1pm.  Somewhere past Bozeman, Montana._

Bellamy steered the Jeep off the freeway and into the small rest stop parking lot.  Clarke was asleep, her head resting against the window.  He nudged her awake. “Hey–thought we’d stretch our legs,” he said as she rolled her shoulders and slipped her shoes back on, yawning.

The rest stop was picturesque in a way that eastern and midwestern rest stops could only ever dream of.  Just beyond the small building lay an incredible view, all soaring peaks and deep, evergreen valleys.  It was unfair, really.  He found Clarke staring longingly at it when he left the restroom and did his best to smother a smile.  “Go.  Get your sketchbook.  I’ll wait,” he said and her answering smile made his heart do a stutter-step.

He stretched out against a boulder opposite Clarke as she drew, soaking in the sun and pretending the thin mountain air wasn’t clawing at his lungs.  He liked how she looked when she was sketching–serious, but relaxed.  Absorbed, maybe.  He liked her seriousness, to be honest.  It helped to have her nearby when everyone else (even Miller, that traitor) was being wild and goofing around.  It made him feel less awkward to have someone else serious in the group.  He also liked that they could sit in comfortable silence with each other–hell, he liked  _her_.  He might as well admit it.

“I’m not ready,” he admitted.

“Ready for what?” she asked absently as she smudged part of her sketch with her finger.

“To give O away.  Her getting married, period.”  It had been weighing on him for months and it felt good to admit it.  Clarke wouldn’t laugh at him–he knew that.  He trusted her, really.

“It is the act of walking her down the aisle, Octavia getting married in general, or Lincoln in particular?”

Bellamy thought for a minute.  He had hit the roof when O first started dating him, mostly because Lincoln was eight years older than her.  After approximately fifteen fights he agreed to meet him, and while he still felt Lincoln was too old he had to admit Lincoln was a decent man.  And now, two years later, he knew Lincoln loved her more than anything.  “Just married in general, I think.  It’s been O and me for so long–even before Mom died–and now…”

Clarke shut her sketchbook and moved to sit next to him, her arm and thigh pressed against his in a way that was both distracting and comforting.  “And now she’s growing up and making a new family?”

Bellamy rested his head on the rock behind him.  “Yeah.”

“You’re not alone, you know.  In Charlottesville.”

Bellamy didn’t quite feel that way–he had Miller, but everyone else was Octavia’s friend first.  Still, it felt nice to have her say it and it felt even nicer to have her by his side, warm and reassuring.  He wanted to stay longer, but the clock was ticking.  Bellamy stood and offered her a hand up.  “Ready?”

“Ready,” she confirmed, but before they walked back to the Jeep he pulled her into his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Clarke brought her arms up and around his waist, pressing her body tightly against his.

They stood that way, silent and still and wrapped in each other’s arms, for a little longer than the friendly hug he originally intended.  “Thanks, princess,” he breathed in her ear, because it had been so long since he felt like anyone other than O or Miller had his back.

“No problem,” she replied, echoing his words from last night.

 

_Thursday, 4pm.  Halfway between Missoula, Montana and Spokane, Washington._

Bellamy rested his shoulder on the Jeep as he waited for the gas to finish pumping. The past few hours had been fun–they finally opened Octavia’s CD and it was, as he suspected, almost entirely pop music.  It started with “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” which had made Clarke snort.  “She has a dance to this you know,” she said.

Bellamy glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  “Do I know?  Who do you think she made learn it first?”

Clarke laughed happily.  “Think she’s made Lincoln learn it?”

“Think he could handle it?”

“Lincoln?” Clarke said incredulously.  “Have you seen that man?  Of course he can dance.  Men with abs like that can  _always_  dance.”  

Bellamy had to fight down an overwhelming surge of jealousy at that, but the way Clarke grinned at him helped him work through it.

Clarke left the gas station, her hair ruffling in the breeze.  She smiled and he couldn’t help but smile back.  “Almost done?” she called, dropping her purchases (beef jerky and doritos, most likely) in the passenger seat.

Clarke slammed the door shut and circled over to where he stood.  “Just a little bit more,” he assured her, but then in a blur of blonde waves and blue eyes she was kissing him.  It caught him off guard and he froze for a second, not believing it was happening, but then his brain woke up and he kissed her back.  He cuffed his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her to him, gliding his tongue along the curve of her lower lip.  Her hips pinned him to the Jeep but he wouldn’t have moved for anything, lost in her completely.  Clarke wrapped her arms around his neck and if it hadn’t been for the truckers catcalling them, he might never have let go.

As it was, they pulled apart and smiled sheepishly at each other.  “We should probably get going if we’re going to make it to Spokane tonight,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Probably,” he admitted grudgingly, but he pressed one last kiss to her forehead before he let her go.

 

_Thursday, 9pm.  Spokane, Washington._

Bellamy curled his arm more tightly around Clarke’s waist so her back was pressed firmly into his chest.  Her shirt–correction, his shirt–left one shoulder bare and he kissed it softly, careful to not wake her.  Bellamy still couldn’t quite believe that this road trip had taken such a sharp left turn, but at the same time he felt nothing but gratitude because Clarke sleeping in his arms felt so incredibly right.

The drive from the gas station to Spokane was one of the longest, most painful drives of his life.  All he wanted to do was kiss Clarke, but the winding mountain roads required her full attention.  He had to content himself with playing with the ends of her hair until they made it to the hotel, and then he had to deal with checking in, and then they had to stop at the vending machine for condoms, which Clarke took an infuriatingly long time choosing.  She only gave in when he brought his lips to her ear and whispered “ _Hurry_ ,” and Clarke went from teasingly deliberating to mashing hastily at the button in the space of a heartbeat.

By the time he swiped the key card, he was practically dying.  Clarke seemed to feel the same way, attacking him the moment the door shut.  They dropped their bags and stumbled to the bed, eagerly tearing at each other’s clothes.  Bellamy managed to pull Clarke’s shirt off while she nipped harsh kisses along his collarbone.  Her hands snaked under his shirt and her nails scratched lightly across his stomach, which made him shudder and she grinned triumphantly.  Bellamy narrowed his eyes at her and shoved her back on the bed, tossing his shirt behind him before covering her with the length of his body.

He popped the button on her jeans and Clarke squirmed out of them and tossed her panties to the floor for good measure.  Bellamy whispered his fingers up her side and she giggled when he reached the ticklish space just below her ribs, but fell silent when he kissed down the valley between her breasts and popped the clasp on her bra.  Clarke worked his jeans down his hips and and arched her neck to kiss him, which distracted him from his mission to watch her nipples pebble under his thumbs.  Bellamy brushed his tongue along hers and then skimmed kisses down her throat, revelling in the gasp it brought to her lips when he nipped at the place where her shoulder met her neck.

But then Clarke turned the tables and reached inside his boxers to wrap her hand around his cock.  He dropped his head to her shoulder and groaned out loud as she started stroking him from base to tip, her wrist twisting in a way that made him see stars.  All too soon she withdrew her hand and flipped them so her knees were pinned next to his hips.  She leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss and he cupped her breasts in his hands, once more teasing her nipples with his thumbs.  He dragged one hand down, feeling the smooth curve of her waist, and then down again to where she was nothing but wet heat.  Bellamy ran his finger along her folds and then parted them to slowly push his finger inside her.  Clarke gasped against his lips but he didn’t let her stop kissing him, not for a second.  Her warmth drew him in and he tried to take his time, tried to tease her until she begged, but every molecule in his body was screaming for him to be inside of her completely so instead he sped up, pushing first one finger, then another, deep in her and then pulling out, his thumb pressing tight circles on her clit.  He dropped his other hand to her thigh to hold her steady as her legs started trembling, and when she came with a sharp cry she almost collapsed on him.

Still breathing heavily, Clarke blindly reached for the condoms she’d tossed on the nightstand.  While Bellamy shucked off his boxers she tore open the packaging.  Her eyes burned into his as she rolled the condom on, and then with little preamble she shifted her weight and sank down on him.  She moved slowly at first, her eyes closed as she rocked her hips back and forth.  Bellamy reached out and traced her jaw with his finger and her eyes fluttered open, her pupils blown wide.  She smiled softly and snapped her hips a little harder, dragging a moan from his throat.  His hands drifted to the curve of her waist and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh there, helping her set a rhythm that had him panting and gasping, needing more of her, needing to go deeper, just needing.  Clarke leaned forward and planted her hands on either side of his head.  Their breath mingled as she pistoned herself up and down his cock, and Bellamy pinned his fingers between them to give her some much needed friction as he felt pressure building at the base of his spine.  He felt her walls start clenching around him and kissed her sloppily just as he lost control.  His hips jerked unevenly as he let go inside of her, his cock spasming as her own orgasm tore through her.

Clarke paused, panting, and then Bellamy helped her off of him.  He tied off the condom and threw it into the trash and then rolled to his side to kiss her.  It seemed like since the moment she kissed him at that shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere he couldn’t get enough of kissing her–he didn’t want to stop, ever.  He wanted to kiss her in every way possible–long and slow and lazy, with curling tongues and gentle hands, and little pecks dropped over her cheeks and forehead and eyes as she giggled.  He wanted rough passion and clicking teeth and gentle reassurance.  This kiss was the first kind–lazy and sweet as they explored each other without the consuming need of just moments earlier.

At some point Clarke disentangled herself from his limbs and scampered to the bathroom, but when she returned she scooped his shirt from the floor and pulled it on before once more wrapping herself around him.  That was how she fell asleep–in a tangle of limbs and sleepy kisses.  

He shifted slightly and made sure she was tucked as tightly as possible against him and then let himself drift off, not sure that dreams could be better than this very moment.

 

_Seattle, Washington.  1pm._

“We’re going straight to the hotel because we got kind of a late start this morning, but we’ll meet you at the hall at four.  Bellamy has your stuff and he said he’d go unload it at your place tomorrow morning while we’re getting our hair done, okay?  Do you need anything in the mean time?  Great.  Love you too, O.”  Clarke hung up and flashed him a smile.  “She’s freaking out right now, so I don’t think she’ll notice–we probably should tell her before the honeymoon though, because she’ll be  _pissed_  if everyone knows before she gets back.”

Bellamy nodded and kept his eyes on the traffic in front of him.  They had agreed that morning (after Clarke woke him by feathering kisses across his jaw, which turned into more kissing, which turned into a slow, early morning fuck that left them both trembling and aching for more–hence their late start) to keep things just between them for the weekend, mostly because their friends (namely Raven Reyes, but also Jasper) would be insufferable.  Bellamy knew it would be painful, but the mockery they would receive would be equally painful, so a secret they would stay.

Clarke spotted the hotel sign in the distance and he eased the Jeep off the freeway and into the parking lot.  Everyone else was flying in that morning and had probably already checked in, but a quick glance confirmed that no one they recognized was around at the moment.  Bellamy took the chance to steal one last long, lingering kiss across the center console–it was an awkward position for both of them, but he didn’t give a damn.  Clarke sank her teeth into his lower lip and pulled back, and then soothed it with her tongue.  Not kissing her every possible second would be his new challenge for the weekend, he realized.  Clarke finally broke the kiss and pressed her forehead against his.

“Ready to go get your baby sister married?”

Bellamy sighed.  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s do this,” she said cheerfully, and with one last peck to his lips she slid out of the car and into the weak Seattle sunshine.  Bellamy watched her for one last moment–one last second where he could look at her the way he wanted to–and then opened his door to join her.

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, bleedtoloveher basically deserves a co-writing credit for helping me plot out this fic. Her emotional support, plotting assistance, and ability to come up with song titles for mix tapes was invaluable. Title comes from Let's Get It On from Raven's mix tape.


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